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tears

dcu!jimmy olsen x gen z!fem!reader

summary: it's a full blown crush. jimmy wants to do things right and you want to jump his bones.

warnings: fluff, mutual pining, sexual comments, reader is horny for jimmy, jimmy is a simp

7/7 of mbf | my masterlist

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It's ridiculous how giddy you are when you walk into the bullpen on Friday.

Nothing happened with Jimmy when he dropped you off. Just a smile, a thank you, and a promise to see him at work. That's it.

But even you can feel something shifting. Like yes, you are ready to admit that you have more than a crush on him. That you like him. And he's been so good, hasn't he, to you? You can't help but want to kiss him senseless as a reward.

Though, this particular Friday is a bad day for ogling Jimmy Olsen from across the room. Eve's first rollout of curated pieces launches in an hour, and that means you'll be holed up in Meeting Room A with your team.

And Jimmy, well, he's on the verge of a story.

Perry is in the bullpen when you walk in, sitting on your chair that's been pulled in front of Lois’ murder board.

She's old school that way, which you can't help but let your police procedural-loving heart jump at the sight. Jimmy stands next to her as she leads Perry through their discovery.

You pause on one side, eyes flicking from the chair under Perry and your desk.

Perry notices, causing Lois and Jimmy to turn to you. He doesn't offer the chair, doesn't acknowledge you except for the raise of an eyebrow as if waiting for you to tell him what you want.

“Nothing,” You answer his silent question, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “Nevermind. That's not even my chair—who cares? Have—have fun!”

Lois gives you a pitying smile, Perry just huffs and returns his attention to the board.

Jimmy stifles a laugh, and you look back at him. He looks so—boyish like that, almost giggling, shooting you a grin and a small wave in greeting.

When you reciprocate his smile gets brighter.

You leave before you can make more of a fool out of yourself, taking your brand new Daily Planet-sanctioned laptop and your pink thermos to Meeting Room A. Where it's safe.

You don't see Jimmy again until lunch time, at the deli you and Cat like to go to.

“So,” He drawls, “I heard from a little birdie you're hosting a little party tomorrow night.”

“Is that little birdie named Cat Grant?”

Because after the numbers on the screen hit 2,500 clicks on Eve's special landing page on the Daily Planet website within the first two hours, you were riding a high that made you susceptible to any suggestion. Including Cat's idea to throw a celebration for all the milestones you've hit this month alone.

And naturally, since your place is the biggest amongst the team (and Cat's place is off limits—you think because she's hiding a sex dungeon), you'd be hosting.

“I'm not revealing my sources,” He grins, all toothy and bright. “Am I invited?”

“It's not a party, Olsen,” You finally turn to him. He's already grinning at you. “It's just food, drinks, and probably Flip 7, with like, six people.”

“Seven, with me.”

“If you're coming then I'll have to invite Clark and Lois, too.”

“Then nine,” it almost sounds like a whine. “We’re in the middle of some serious scandal at the City Hall, Simba. We’ll make the front page tomorrow, trust.”

Your eyes narrowed. He is right, you know he is right because Lois has been giddier than usual. Even giddier than when Clark and her celebrated their first anniversary. You purse your lips, watching Jimmy’s grin widen in real time because he knows he got you.

“If your name is on the front page tomorrow, on the by line for the article, not just the picture, then you three musketeers can come.”

With a smile impossibly blinding, he says, “See you tomorrow!”

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

What are you doing this fine morning?

You

pre-party errands, obv

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

Ha! So it is a party

What kind of errands?

You

trying to assemble an extra chair I got from IKEA

since, u kno, I have 3 extra unplanned guests.

why r u up in my business at 9am u stalker???

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

And she has seen the article! I win!

Just curious

Was hoping to take you out before

If you want to, of course

You

impatient, r we?

i have to get everything ready before 5

cuz i need to make lasagna, per cat’s request

which i still need to shop for so

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

I didn’t read a no

You

Jimmy.

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

Capitalization and punctuation. Scary.

You’ve been staring at the mess you made for too long. Loose screws on the floor, lopsided quarter of a chair in your living room. On the coffee table is today’s paper, bold headline written: BACKDOOR DEALS IN CITY HALL, COST CITIZENS MILLIONS, and in the by-line, Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen.

His name written twice, another one under the picture of the Mayor with Kyle Fielder, taken months before.

A story about how the Mayor’s Chief of Staff is taking the fundraising money from the game and countless others to fund tax breaks for private companies. A stray comment made during a press briefing sent Lois to the trail like a bloodhound, accidental photo evidence by Jimmy, and three whistleblowers later, there you are.

Thirty minutes later since you received that text, there he is, a box and an iced peach matcha oat latte in his hands.

You are covered in sweats of frustration, fingers smelling like metal and hopelessness.

“Well don't you look pretty in the morning,” He grins, handing you the matcha.

The speed at which you snatch it out if his hand is alarming. The moan you let out once the cold liquid hits your tongue is downright pornographic.

Jimmy clears his throat. “Okay—just—have you had breakfast?”

“No,” You take the bag out of this hand, finding two cups of Portuguese egg tarts. “I have things to do today. Things. I have to skip gym because of that stupid chair!”

You sit back on the floor, back against the back of your couch. Jimmy follows suit, taking off his jacket and settling next to you. “Did you buy a whole new chair for this party?”

“This gathering,” you correct, taking a bite out of one of the tarts. “And yes, I did.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I don’t have enough chairs, duh,” you gesture towards your apartment. “This is sort of like, the first time I have had people over.”

Jimmy turns to you, eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Even Cat?”

“Even Cat,” you confirm. Jimmy pauses, holding himself back from asking the confirming question. You roll your eyes, “Yes, you’re the first non-tennant person to cross this threshold. Happy?"

“A little,” a slow gin grows on his face. “Now, pass me the Allen key, please.”

“The Allen key?”

“Yes?”

“What is that?”

“The hex key,” he says, palm facing up. “The wrench that comes with it for the hexagonal screws.”

“Oh,” you grab the wrench, handing it to him. “I thought the guy said it’s the L key. Y’know, cause it’s shaped like an L.”

It feels oddly domestic, as Jimmy starts (re)assembling the chair. You watch as his tongue sticks out in concentration, occasionally asking you for a screw that you have misplaced.

You watch the muscles on his arms bulge, as he moves the half-done chair around, straining underneath his white t-shirt. His eyebrows are furrowed ever so slightly, freckles catching light from the sun.

Dear god. You know he's hot. You've admitted that you find him not. But this? This is beauty in a different realm altogether.

There's something about the way he's crouching how, thigh all flexed, on one knee, as he starts to screw in the backrest that has you clenching your thighs together.

“You are surprisingly good at this,” You say, needing to distract yourself from all the ogling you do.

“It's a set of instructions, Simba, they spell it out for you,” He smiles teasingly, eyes flickering to you in a split second. Then, he nods towards the half-eaten tart in your hand. “Those any good?”

“They are, actually. Excellent choice.” You hold out your hand towards him. “Here, it's not too eggy and see the pattern on the bottom? That means the puff pastry was rolled—”

Jimmy, instead of taking it from your hand as expected, leans down and takes a bite from your hand. His lips graze your thumb as he does, eyes staring lazily into yours.

Your breath stutters. Your heart skips.

The expression on your face must be ridiculous, really, because he leans back slightly, trying to hold a teasing smile as he chews. “You're right, they're delicious.”

“If this is how you flirt with girls, no wonder they're so obsessed with you,” You say, and give yourself a pat on the back for not cracking.

He tilts his head with a smile. “Are you saying you're obsessed with me?”

And, just because you want revenge, you swipe your free thumb on his bottom lips, catching stray puff pastry crumbs. You feel him stop breathing, then he lets out a choked sound as you bring your thumb between your lips, sucking it slightly.

“That's—that's cheating,” He stutters, shaking his head, before finishing the chair with a beet red face.

You smile triumphantly.

It turns into a competition of who can get the other flustered more. You are one to one.

Jimmy stands beside you, hands behind his back after he hands you salt instead of sugar in an attempt to help you prepare a batch of panna cotta. You begin to scoop the heavy cream mixture into the Martini glasses you got at the thrift store yesterday, making it all pretty.

“It smells so good already,” He whines. “Are you sure we have to let them sit in the fridge? Why can't we have them now?”

“Because gelatin needs time to set, Jimmy.”

“I bet Superman can make them set faster,” He says thoughtfully. “With cold breath and everything.”

You pause. “I'm not sure it works that way.”

“Why not? Gelatin needs to cool down, right?”

“Yes, but I don't think the rapid cooling down will create the same delicate bonds between the proteins,” You ponder. “It needs to be gradual, I think. Now you've made me curious. Next time we meet Superman, I'll ask him to do this for me.”

You feel his gaze then, on the side of your face. Your eyes flicker to his. It's soft, his eyes—paired with a dopey smile you love on him.

“What?” You ask, a small smile on your lips in anticipation.

Jimmy shrugs. “You're hot when you know stuff.”

Jesus. Jimmy, two— you, one.

What annoys you is that it's a line that's tried and true and you're not the exception. Any guy can say that to you at a bar and at the very least you'll shoot him a pretty smile. But when Jimmy says it? You feel naked. Like you've been stripped bare and just about to let him do anything to you.

You can only manage an eye roll as a response.

Jimmy arranges the ten Martini glasses on a tray, setting it next to your fridge to cool down before you put them in.

“So what's next on the list?” He asks.

You pause, then turn to him. “Did you come here just to help me run errands, Olsen?”

“Well, no—yes,” He sighs. “I didn't get to see you as much yesterday so I want to spend time with you—doesn't matter what we're doing.”

Your breath is caught on your throat. “You'll see me tonight anyway.”

Jimmy rubs his neck then, sheepish. “I kinda want you all to myself, Simba, in case I haven't made that clear.”

Dear our Lord in heaven—help your heart and your pussy. Jimmy, three, in rapid succession, no less.

“Okay, well, we have time before we need to shop,” You face him fully. “What do you want to do?”

Jimmy ends up sending you back to your room to clean up and change. When you come back out, the panna cottas are in the fridge, the dishwasher is run and loaded. Your kitchen is free from the spilled milk and sugar.

You are this close to tearing his clothes off in your kitchen.

It's a casual place, the restaurant he takes you to, with green tiled tables and a one-page menu. The lamps hang low from the ceiling, off because the natural light comes in with zero restrictions. Some lo-fi music plays in the background. A farm-to-table concept with an ever-changing menu—you have been meaning to go here.

“Nice pick,” You say knowingly, a smirk in acknowledgement. You know you have this place ad on TikTok saved and reposted, at some point.

Jimmy shrugs. “I take your wish list and recommendations seriously.”

“Careful, Jimmy, you are walking into love-bomb territory, here.”

You expect him to stutter, or at least lose his composure for a second, but he just leans back, at ease, with a smile. “I've been holding back for a year, Simba. It feels freeing now I get to do this publicly.”

“Do what?” You ask, a little breathless.

“Crushing on you,” He starts. “Liking you, obsessing, worship—”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” flustered, you wave him off. Four for Jimmy. You clear your throat, “Is that why you didn't tell me my thermos is from you instead of Clark? Because you've been holding back?”

Now that flusters him—freckles against pink cheeks. He sits up straight. “Shit. He told you about that?”

You can only nod, biting your smile. Jimmy three, you, two.

Jimmy's eyes fall to your lips for a split second. “I didn't know how you'd react if you knew it's from me.”

“Really?” you drawl.

“What am I supposed to say?” He laughs. “Hey, I know you hate me but I'm jealous that some stupid guy gave you his number on your cup. Here's a reusable travel mug so it doesn't happen again.”

“You're right. I would've hit you with the thing,” You grin at him. “But I never hated you.”

“You definitely did.”

“It's more like an annoyance,” You giggle. Fuck. You're giggling.

“That's the same thing!”

“No, it's different!”

Jimmy leans forward, grinning. “How?”

You pause to think. “I would—not have unplugged your life support to charge my phone.”

“Thanks, thank you, really.”

The meal continues like that, with jokes and stories and gossip. It is so easy to sit there and laugh over sourdough French toast and brioche burgers and sparkling water with Jimmy.

No performances, no façade, because, you realize, he knows you. He knows your drink order that changes every time, but always matcha with oat milk. He knows the music to play in the car. He knows your favorite spots and knows when a spot is going to be a favorite.

He knows you, just as you know him.

You know the air freshener scent in his car is the same as the ones he put inside his closet. You know he claims his signature scent is some musky Versace, but you know his favorite is something a little fresher, crisper. You know the kind of camera he uses, the lenses, and the type of roll he likes for his analog ones.

You are, for lack of a better word, screwed.

The two of you end up at a Whole Foods aisle, with Jimmy pushing the cart.

“How many types of herbs can you need in a lasagna?”

“As much as you can fit in.”

“And this is enough ground beef?”

“Hm,” You inspect the containers in Jimmy's hands. “We can add another packet, since I can't add sausages.”

“Why not?”

“Farah and Gian—two people from my team—one's halal and the other kosher,” You explain. “Speaking of which, that's the specific brand I wrote down, right? They're halal certified.”

Jimmy nods. “Exactly as you wrote. I do not dare to stray even one letter.”

You are well aware that your standards are low—the devil is playing tinikling with the bar—but Jimmy who listens, who is observant and can follow simple instructions is really doing it for you.

Especially when he offers to do the dishes after the lasagna is in the oven, allowing you to change and freshen up before guests start arriving.

It takes everything in your power not to start—ahem—pleasuring yourself, moaning his name, in your bathroom. Because shit, he's been driving you crazy all day and now you just gotta, what, exactly? Play host? With him making eyes at you every chance he's got?

Shit. Fuck.

“Well, Olsen, don't you look giddy!” It's Lois. Of course it's Lois who's all smirks and shining eyes and hair full of secrets.

“How can he not be?” Cat smirks at him. “I saw that story Simba posted. Reaaal cozy at Whole Foods.”

It's a simple selfie of you, really, with him barely in the picture except for a watch-adorned arm and a wisp of his red hair.

It flusters him nonetheless. At this rate, you'll definitely be catching up to him soon. Especially in that backless top you wear, paired with a pair of jeans that hug your ass just right.

You know what? Jimmy's going to give it to you—that top flusters him, definitely.

He's still got the leg up, but the night's still young.

You're talking to your team, whose party he, Clark, and Lois crashed. Gale, he thinks, one of the newer recruits, is leaning too close for Jimmy's comfort.

“He's gay and is dating someone from IT,” Cat says, rolling her eyes when she notices that no, Jimmy is not listening to her and Lois, and yes, Jimmy is sheeting with jealousy.

Jimmy visibly relaxes that it's almost comical.

You catch his eyes from across the room, raising an eyebrow in question like, “why the hell are you staring at me?”

Jimmy can only smile and raise his hand in a small wave.

“Okay yep, no, this is too pathetic,” Cat groans, walking away to join you instead.

She says something to you, making your eyes flicker back to Jimmy before letting out a laugh.

What the hell is Cat saying—

“Olsen,” Lois slaps a hand on his shoulder, getting his attention. “Get it together, damn!”

Clark walks in just before the game starts, smelling vaguely like smoke and ash. Flip 7, as you promised, and Jimmy learned that it's some team bonding activity that you and Cat and Vicky play every time your team onboards someone.

Much to his chagrin, Jimmy sits the opposite of you, allowing himself to stew with his feelings.

But fine, it's worth it because he gets to see every expression you make, every smile, every groan. He likes this competitive version of you, he decides.

He likes that he gets to learn more about you from the members of your team. He likes learning how you work, because he technically only worked with you once and he was too busy spiralling then.

He likes every side of you he's seen.

“Clark, what the hell, you win, again!” You turn to Clark in awe, as he's the only one who's still in the game, along with the most combined score.

The big guy shrugs, sheepish. “I just don't like to gamble?”

The game changes after Clark wins yet again. It's a game Farah sort of invented, where you go with another person, flip open a card, and say a word that starts with the same letter as the number on the card.

It goes well halfway to the first run, until Cat flips an eight and Lois yells, “Fuck!”

And Cat yells, “Coke!”

Then the spiral begins. You pull a one and Jimmy yells, “Eggs!”

Clark pulls a seven and you yell, “Superman!”

Which is correct, but it startles Clark so much that the deck in his hand flows apart. Jimmy watches as he tries to save face, but ends up laughing at his flustered skin anyway.

It slowly dissipates after that, with your team leaving first, followed by Lois and Clark, and then Cat, when she realizes she's third wheeling you and Jimmy.

Jimmy lingers in the kitchen, pre-washing the dishes as an excuse to stay longer even though you told him not to. Once the dishes are all loaded up, he starts to wipe down the counter with a kitchen towel.

He's starting to feel ridiculous, really, doing all this just to get a little bit more attention from you. Like he didn't spend the whole day with you before all this.

He plans it in his head—your first date. Jimmy will take you to an exhibition and then dinner. Then he'll drop you off at your door and kiss you goodnight, if he's lucky, then he'll see you at work and take you out for lunch.

But you walk back to the kitchen with a bag of trash, chucking it in your bin.

“That was really fun,” You comment, leaning against your kitchen island, across from him. “I didn't expect journalists would be that bad at playing a word association game.”

He mirrors your pose, smiling. “We are, after a couple of drinks and a gambling game.”

After a long day, Jimmy should be tired. He should be exhausted, really, or at the very least, recognize that he needs to conserve his energy for the drive back to his place.

But standing in your kitchen, he never felt more alive. Every nerve is on fire, his eyes cataloging microscopic movement from you.

He remembers that night, when you kissed for the first time. You're sitting on the exact counter he's leaning against, your position exactly where he was. He wants to walk over and kiss you senseless, exactly like he did before, but this time, he'll know exactly how to savor it.

“Thank you—”

“I just want—”

You both start speaking at the same time, laughing when you realize. It's heavy, the air, and he can see it chokes you both.

Jimmy smiles, nudging your stretched feet with his. “You go first.”

You rest your slippers-clad foot against his, grinning. “Thank you for today. It was really fun. Especially when you built me a chair before our first date.”

His heart leaps.

“Date?” He says, teasing. “No, sweetheart, that wasn't a date. Trust me, when we go on our first date, I'll pull all the stops—flowers, reservations, kiss you at your door.”

You move, then, slowly, deliberately trying to push him over the edge, he swears. He watched the way your back flexes as you take two water bottles from the fridge next to him.

You hand him one, and he holds them dumbly in his hand. He watches as you take a sip, watching as water dribbles a little from the corner of your lips.

Head on the fridge door, body facing him, hands crossed over your chest, you smirk. “Bold of you to assume I'll let you kiss me on the first date.”

You're close now, so close he can see the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks. So close that he can smell your perfume that sends him crazy every time. So close that he can recreate the color of your irises by their hex codes.

“You're not gonna let me kiss you on our first date?” He asks, voice nothing but a hoarse whisper, thick with desire he barely tries to hide.

You lean closer, just a breath away now. “What if I don't want to wait until our first date?”

You're going to kill him. You have maimed him. His armor of defense has been stripped bare with just a look and a smile from you.

Jimmy tries to physically swallow his wants. “I want to do this right.”

A hand on his cheek. He's burning up under your touch. You blink up at him. “This doesn't feel wrong.”

He calls your name, a desperate plea to give him the mercy he doesn't deserve.

“What were you going to say?” You ask him. Earlier. It's your turn now.”

It takes him a second to remember what you're talking about.

“I just want to tell you that you look beautiful,” He says, bashful. Jimmy closes his eyes. “You always do but this top—”

He trails off, catching his stray hand from caressing the exposed skin of your back. His fingers curled on themselves mid air, millimeters away from waist.

“Jimmy?” You call him, his eyes snap back open. “Kiss me.”

The thread that hangs his resolve snaps into oblivion.

You win. You win every time.